


Gloomy Sunday

by AngelinaVansen (catherineflowers)



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Euthanasia, F/F, Heavy Angst, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 09:38:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14788031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineflowers/pseuds/AngelinaVansen
Summary: Neelix helps Janeway to cook a meal for Seven of Nine.





	Gloomy Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Written for JDI1 Challenge, sometime in the early 2000s. I was told to write a story in which Neelix helps Janeway to cook a meal for Seven of Nine. This was NOT my usual fare. But never one to shirk my duties, I decided to twist it up a little. This is the rather bizarre result ...

She tells me to get it from the pillow underneath her head. It takes me a moment of groping to find it, but there it is. A small canister, plastic and deceptively warm to the touch.

God knows where she got it. Someone must have given it to her I suppose, though I don't know who. I envy them their part in this, whoever they are. Anonymous, sanctimonious. I wonder if they knew it would be me who had to do this.

Seven of Nine is on her back and I am on her front, my cheek sweaty with the sweat of the sex we have just had. Cramped and uncomfortable as always on her bed in sickbay. Eye level to her nipples, pink as cough candy. Bittersweet.

Her eyes are huge as she looks at me, wanting me to say something. Tell her I will do this. That she won't have to do this, not alone. I sigh. No, Seven. Not alone. Never alone. If ever you needed a Captain and not a friend, it's now. 

I take the canister from under her pillow and wrap it hard in my hand, holding her gaze. Making that promise even though I'm not saying the words. I will do this. I don't know how yet, but I will do it.

I get up to put it away out of sight, not wanting it around, not wanting to face it. In the bed Seven lets out a slow breath she seems to have been holding for hours. 

I ignore her, or try to. Replicate a drink and swallow it in long, smooth gulps. Cold water that tastes like the minerals it isn't made from. Wanting to taste anything but my own mouth right now.

"I require regeneration," Seven says behind me. "We should reactivate the Doctor."

I nod without saying anything, and go to pick up my clothes from beside the bed. Not wanting to go back to the bridge and the soulless space of my ready room, not with this in my hand. I tuck it inside my jacket before I go over to Seven and dress her too. Trying not to meet her eyes as I slip her limp cold arms through her sleeves, trying not to hurt her as I do up her fastenings.

Not that it would matter. Not that she could feel it. Oh Seven. Poor Seven, paralysed and numb and helpless. This isn't you at all.

I remember the first time I saw Seven of Nine. Stepping from that alcove on that Borg cube, the tertiary adjunct to unimatrix zero one. Bald and tall. I remember that I thought she was beautiful, although in a different way to the way she is beautiful now. Beautiful because she was inhuman. Powerful. With her pale marble skin and immovable expression, I remember thinking she was like a statue.

Now she is a statue, I think. Perfect and preserved in whatever position I leave her. 

Now it's horrible. Now it isn't beautiful at all. Seven isn't Seven any more and I want her back. It's not enough to come down here to sickbay every afternoon and have sex with a corpse. 

It's been hard for me to accept this. Hard for her as well, obviously, but this has been intolerable for me, this slow decline. One day a twitch of tendons in her right hand, a little stiffness after velocity. A little slowness to her walk, a little difficulty raising her legs as we made love. The Borg parts slowing, decaying. Nanoprobes not quite repairing them, or over-repairing, filling her with technologies like cancer. Horrible, horrible. Together we came to sickbay every day to watch this happen, watch scan after scan of her body declining.

Afterwards we'd go back to my quarters and fuck. No other word for it, we were animals, sweaty, crazy animals in each other's arms. Not a second wasted on foreplay or sweet nothings, they were seconds we didn't have any more. Awful. The best and the worst sex of my life. 

I spent hours with the Doctor, begging him not to let me lose her. Hours of research, discussion, studying. Hours of holodeck time, trying ridiculous operations that didn't have a chance of success. Losing her every time, almost as if I was trying to prepare myself. As if I wanted to see how I was going to react.

Funny how all propriety, all parameters, are cast aside in the face of something like this. I didn't care who saw me with her now. I didn't mind holding her hand, touching her face, resting my head on her shoulder when we were together. Letting everyone know we were lovers. That seemed important somehow. A marriage almost, though I knew we would never actually do that.

She has been in sickbay like this for almost a month. Paralysed, losing a little more all the time. She has begun to lose her vision even, the Borg eye slowing, even her blinking not as fast as it should be. Already it hurts her to eat and she finds it difficult to swallow. What will be next? Her speech? Her breathing? How much more can I stand to watch her suffer?

That is the question now, isn't it. The question she has thrust into my hands. I keep telling myself that it is her decision, her life, her plans, but it isn't that simple. Seven thinks that if I love her, I will kill her. With this poison, I thee wed. Oh Christ, that's almost funny.

I go into the sickbay office and reactivate the Doctor. He gives me a knowing look that a few months ago I would have found unbearable. 

"Captain," he says.

"Doctor, Seven requires regeneration," I tell him, in a voice that still sounds shockingly throaty from passion. 

"Mmmm," he agrees with a raised eyebrow. 

Can he tell? For a moment I am scared. I wonder if he is somehow programmed to detect toxic substances and he can sense the vial I have in my jacket. 

But that's insane. He would have found it under Seven's pillow. I think she's had it there for days. Our last shore leave, Degreh Prime, everyone had to go to the surface by shuttle because of the atmosphere. How easy would it have been to smuggle poison off the planet there. Someone must have done it then.

I go to say goodbye before I go back to my bridge and back to my duties. A swift kiss for soft lips and a stroke for skin that can still feel. Her eyes have that same look of pleading I saw earlier when she gave me the poison, wanting more reassurance. 

"I love you," I whisper into her ear. That will have to do. That's all I can manage.

I do not look at her again as I leave sickbay.

I sit on the bridge for the next two hours, trying to be busy. Find the solace in my work I think everyone thinks I should. But with nothing but six weeks of open space in front of us and the ship operating at peak efficiency, that is proving difficult.

Everyone keeps trying to be nice. Give me time off, do duties for me. Shield me from the tough stuff like Ensign Daly's suicide bid. No one's mentioned Crewman Merson's baby.

I feel like I'm losing my mind. Losing my ship as well; they all pretend, but it's been a long time since I've been a proper Captain here. More than a figurehead. Chakotay's been running the ship, dodging questions about my oversleeping and my lack of interest in meetings and procedures. 

No one blames me. Seven's dying, after all. But the fact remains that one day I will have to come back and be the Captain here, and I don't know if I can do that. 

I'm not sure if I can be the Captain now. Ever again. Something's changed inside me, all these months watching Seven waste away. Perhaps I'm just not strong enough. But perhaps no one could be. I've lost count of the nights I've cried myself to sleep. Months of living my life with shadows. Who could be the same after that?

I get up from the Captain's seat and gaze out at the view screen as I walk around the bridge. I used to feel utterly at home here, I think. This used to be like my own living room. 

Now it feels huge and empty. The spaces between the stations seem enormous. Even carpeted and brightly lit as it is, it seems bare and drab. She just doesn't feel like my Voyager any more, that's what it's come down to.

I sigh loudly, and some of the crewmen turn to look at me. Chakotay moves in his seat. Fidgets a little. 

"Why don't you take the afternoon off, Captain?" he suggests quietly. "Get some rest. We'll be fine up here."

I smile at him, a weary smile I can barely make happen. I must look dreadful. 

"Spend some time with Seven," he cajoles.

"All right," I say eventually. "Thank you, Commander."

He nods. He thinks he is being kind. To the crew, as well as to me.

"You have the bridge," I say, and leave by the turbolift.

I don't see Seven though. I go back to my quarters, take a bath and try to read a book. Change out of my uniform. I can't see Seven now, I know what she'll be asking. Every look she gives me, every tone of voice, I know what it will be aimed at. 

Seeing her is difficult enough without all that. I need some space to think.

I go for a walk and end up in the mess hall, probably because I am hungry. Neelix fusses round me, bringing me food and drink and samples of the dishes he is thinking of making for the crew. He thinks he is being kind as well, providing some comic relief perhaps, but he is just an irritation.

"Please, Neelix," I say. "It's been a long day. Can't I just have something to eat in peace?!"

I feel awful as soon as the words leave my mouth, but Neelix isn't hurt. He does fall silent, though, and has a look of such sweet knowing on his face that I am momentarily taken aback. 

"I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to snap like that ..."

"Of course Captain," he says gently. "I just want to show you something."

I am puzzled. "What's that?" 

He takes my hand and leads me, almost as if I was Naomi going into Flotter's forest, into the kitchen. Out past the bubbling, steaming pans and through his larder, into the back where he keeps his pots and pans. We stand in the middle, surrounded by gleaming pans of every shape and size, hanging from every spare space.

"My spices ..." he says, his eyes firm and holding mine. 

I look to where he is indicating, a shelf lined with a row of little containers. Innocuous enough, I think. I do not understand. But then, slowly, recognition. Each container the same size and shape, the same dull plastic. Exactly the same as the one I have in my pocket, the one Seven asked me to get from under her pillow this afternoon.

I feel my jaw drop. I bring my hand up to cover my mouth.

"You ..." I start. "You gave it to her?!"

He nods silently, slowly.

"How COULD you!?" I scream. "How could you do that, Neelix, after everything she's done for you, after everything I've done for you?!"

I am shouting at him, yelling. Irrational. It just feels good to yell. I feels good to have someone to blame something on, after all this time. Then I am crying, and he has me in his arms, sobbing against the brightly coloured cloth of that ridiculous apron. He holds me, and he cradles me, and he even strokes my hair.

That feels good as well. Having someone to hold me, someone to be stronger than me. That one has been years.

"She wants to die," he whispers. "We have to help her."

I'm crying too hard to respond. Proper sobs and wails like a child, helpless, hopeless. Miserable. At the end of my rope.

Eventually, when I stop, I am sitting on the floor. Neelix goes to get me a glass of water and something to wipe my face with. A few months ago I would have been ashamed of myself, a Captain crying in the arms of her comic relief. But this isn't a few months ago, and I'm really not the Captain any more.

Neelix stands by me while I drink and sort out my appearance. Not saying anything. 

"I'm sorry," I say again, and I really am. "I don't know what's happening to me."

"Someone you love is suffering," Neelix says, and when he says it like that, it sounds like he really understands. 

Sometimes I forget who Neelix really is. Sometimes I dismiss him as a buffoon, a babysitter and a pest. I forget he's seen more tragedy than most of us ever will. 

"Did she ask you to get it for her?" I press. I just want to know the details, for some reason.

He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. 

"And you got it from Degreh?"

"Yes," he concurs. He tells me the details, omitting nothing, telling me everything she said to him, how he responded, reasoned with her, talked to her at great length. All those times I thought they were playing kadis kot.

I feel sick. Betrayed, in a way, but also left out. All this plotting and planning, and I knew none of it. Going there every day to make love to her, holding her, being held by her while she was still capable, hearing those muttered words of love while her head thought thoughts of death. I don't know how she did it. 

I hate Neelix for it, too, it's almost like I've found out he was having an affair with her. They kept secrets, horrible secrets from me together.

I am angry. Angry that they conspired against me like this, knowing it would hurt me, knowing it would rip me apart when I found out, and they didn't care. They didn't think about me at all. 

Angry too that Neelix is a coward. That he should have the easy part, the secret negotiations, the part where he seems like a hero to Seven, getting what she wanted. That he could steal away having slipped it under her pillow, steal away with his cloak of anonymity knowing I had the horrible part to do. He knew. He knew that I was the one who would have to find a way to do this, find a way to kill the woman I love.

"It's so easy for you," I hear myself saying. "Your part's done. What ... was the next part too messy for you?!"

Again, the same patient look, the same gentle voice. "She wanted you to do it," he explains. "I offered. I wanted to spare you this, I thought it would be too painful, but she ... she wanted you to do it."

"That supposed to make me feel better?" I spit. "How ... how can I do it, Neelix? I'm not strong enough! I doubt anyone is. I don't even know where to begin!"

"You're going to do it?" he asks. "You'll help her?"

"I don't have any choice, do I!"

"Of course you do. You're the Captain. You're Seven's Captain. Partner or not, she will do as you say."

I look at my hands. Wanting to be honest with this man, possibly the only one I can be. "Captain? I don't think so. Not any more. I haven't felt like the Captain in a long time."

A part of me expects him to deny it, to offer me the same platitudes as Chakotay would, as Harry would, as even Tuvok would. He doesn't. He doesn't say anything. 

I think I'm going to start crying again, but then he does speak, his voice low even in the silence of his galley.

"You don't have to be the Captain, then," he says. "I've always thought that must be a tough job anyway. All those decisions."

I laugh, a little. "Yeah," I agree. "Too many decisions."

"That's why I like being the cook. Only one thing to think about ... whether or not the people you're feeding will like what they're eating."

"Much simpler," I say.

"Maybe you should try that," he urges. "Just do my job. It's much easier like that. The big stuff is still there ... it's just not your problem any more."

I shake my head, smiling. I appreciate his intentions, but I don't need a hobby. "I'm not much of a cook," I say.

He smiles. "Oh come now, Captain. I don't believe that. I don't think that could possibly be true. Everyone's a good cook when they need to be."

"Maybe I've just ... never needed to be," I hear myself saying. 

"Would you like me to teach you?" he says in the softest voice. 

I start to shake my head, thinking this is bullshit, this is another distraction, but then I stop. I realise what he is offering.

A flood of gratitude so strong comes over me, and I have to sit back down.

"Neelix ..." I gasp.

"It's all right," he whispers. "Don't worry about it. You're the cook now, Kathryn. All you have to think about is how nice the food tastes." 

Dumbly, I take the hand he is offering, and get back to my feet. He leads me into the outer kitchen once again, and wraps an apron around me like an embrace. He holds my hands under the sanitiser. 

"I think Seven would like some soup," he mutters. "What do you think?"

I nod, still mute. "She likes chicken," I say. 

"Oh yes ... I think we've got some chicken. I know a good recipe for chicken soup. Ensign Xanthe taught it to me."

It is easy, with Neelix there. Neelix, guiding my hands, Neelix, passing me the ingredients and telling me what to do with them. He is right, as well, it is all about the food. Even when he slips a gentle hand inside my jacket pocket and gets the canister, I barely blink. It seems so natural, so right. 

Cooking this for Seven. For Seven. Will she like it? Stirring it in. How will it taste? That's all that matters when you're the cook. The Captain's issues fade away.

Slowly we heat it up to a simmer, and Neelix, singing softly to himself all the time, adds herbs and spices. I stir it round and round the pan, hypnotically looking into it. Inhaling deeply, smelling the scent of it. Warm, homely, loving. Preparing a meal for the woman I love. What could be more loving than this?

Eventually, it's ready, and Neelix cools it down slightly, and puts it into a tureen. He even adds a sprig of parsley, and warms a bowl for Seven too. Just a meal. A warm soup for a cold day. Just like my mother used to say.

He bids me off with a cheery goodbye, giving it all to me on a tray. Not at all like an angel of death. 

As I leave his kitchen, I start to think about what it is going to be like. Tomorrow, waking up to a new day. Going back on duty possibly. No Seven to see in the morning, no charts to look at with the Doctor. No more scans to examine and analyse. No talking with Seven about her pain.

I think about planning her funeral with my crew round me. Having them write speeches, choosing music to play. Thinking of some poetry that might best speak of the way I feel about Seven of Nine. Replicating little white flowers to put in her hands in her coffin. How impossible. How completely impossible. This is something that a cooking lesson from Neelix won't help. I think of the completely unbearable hole she will leave in my life, the total pain and emptiness and loneliness. The way I will never be the same again.

Perhaps I am being na�ve. Perhaps I will spend tomorrow in the brig, or confined to quarters. I am assuming that my crew will cover up for me when they discover what I have done, but perhaps this won't be the case. Suicide, even when a person is terminally ill, is abhorrent to so many people. I even counted myself as one. 

I enter sickbay, hoping beyond hope for a ridiculous miracle. That Seven of Nine will be there, sitting up and smiling. Cured somehow, a last minute reprieve.

But she isn't. She is lying on her bed, looking up at her view screen, watching a concert that was given several weeks ago in the holodeck.

"Hello Seven," I say softly, and she looks at me with eyes of wonder. Wondering what I have in the tureen, but knowing already. "I .. I made some soup," I stutter, so close to tears. Close to breaking down totally.

She says nothing, just watches me with wide blue eyes as I come closer, raising the head of her bed so she can at least sit up a little. I brush some loose strands of her hair out of her eyes, off of her face, touching the warm soft skin and then kissing her.

She smiles slightly and tears fill her eyes.

"Computer, deactivate the EMH," I say, barely loud enough for the computer to hear. In his office, the Doctor shimmers and disappears. "Emergency EMH lockout, authorisation Janeway Pi one one zero."

That will keep him from reappearing again until the deed is done. 

Seven watches as I prepare her soup, pouring her a generous bowlful. 

"It smells delicious," she says.

I smile, as best as I am able. "Neelix helped me," I tell her softly. Then, I ask her, "Do you know how this works?"

She shakes her head, tight lipped, and for the first time, I get the feeling she is experiencing fear. "It is supposed to be gentle," she says. "Fast. Like going to sleep."

The tears do come then, and I can't stop them. "Oh, Seven ..." I sob, and fall into her lap to cry my heart out. I have watched this woman falling asleep countless times, been mesmerised by its beauty in the midnight light of my quarters.

She cries too, the tears falling silently from her human eye, a little shimmery and silver with the dying nanoprobes that are killing her. 

Here, crying into her lap, surrounded by the warmth of her, the smell of her, the sound of her breath and the feeling of her body, I know I cannot do this. I cannot feed her the soup, watch her die and walk out of here to plan her funeral. I am just not capable.

I think again of what tomorrow will be like, about what the rest of my life will be like, on this ship and at home. Thinking of this moment every day and night, every second I am alone. Thinking of this woman, of Seven of Nine. 

But I think again as well of Seven's future. How many weeks has she got left anyway? How many good ones? She is practically in a state of waking death right now, unable to move, depressed and miserable with nothing to think about but her own end. I cannot watch that either. That would be worse.

I cannot stop crying as I feed her the soup. One spoonful at a time, like a small child. She drinks it eagerly, spluttering just a little as she tries to swallow with her painful throat, wanting to get as much of it down as she can. 

Tears rolling down my face, my nose streaming. Sobbing. Clutching her hand, feeling the last warmth of her body.

It is powerful stuff, whatever Neelix brought back. By the time she finishes the bowl, she is already drifting away.

I want to leave. I want to run. I want to pull out my eyes, anything. Anything but watch her fading away, horrible and immediate. She coughs and tries to speak, trying to tell me something, but already she is incapable. I hold her and soothe her and gaze into her eyes. 

Telling her how much I love her, that it will all be all right. I kiss her and cradle her, stroking her cheek. 

Her breathing slows, becomes gaspy, stops altogether. Releases in one long outward gust, the sound of a soul escaping. Then she is not there anymore, even though her eyes are open and she seems to be looking right at me. She is just not there any more.

Seven ... 

I can't believe I have done this. I cry out in anguish, loud and long. Get up and walk across the room, breathing hard, dizzyingly hard. Wanting to be sick. Sweating and cold and sobbing so hard with a pain in my chest like a heart attack.

So angry as well, blind with rage. Wanting to smash everything I see, scream at something, ask why it had to be Seven, why it had to be me. 

In the end I sit down, back in my chair beside Seven. I close her eyes and kiss her forehead. Prepare her body to be found. 

I think I had better go. I think I had better go to the bridge and tell someone what I have just done, let them relieve me of duty and take it from there. 

But then I think of Seven lying here alone, and I can't do it. I can't leave her. I think of her in days and years to come, after we've spaced her, that beautiful body I've loved so many times alone and so far away from me, so far ...

I can't let that happen. I can't bear the thought of it. I know it will keep me awake at night, make me crazy with the horror of it. Light year after light year separating us and Seven ... so alone. She hates nothing more than being alone.

And here I am, a woman who loved her ... who loves her ... killing her like this and leaving her alone with no one and nothing but oblivion forever.

I drink the soup myself.

Before I know what I am doing I have the tureen in my hands and I'm drinking it down, great gulps of it. Spilling it all over myself, all down my face and hands and chin.

Drinking until I have no breath left, till I start to think I might just drown. I drop the tureen and breathe. Looking at myself. Not believing I have just done it.

I stagger forward, feeling it already. Grabbing Seven's hands and holding them. Wanting her to be the last thing I see and touch and smell. I can do this. I can. I am strong enough to do this. Die for her, die with her. I don't know why I didn't think of this before.

I put my head on her lap because I can't hold it up any more. My breath is getting short and it's not a pleasant sensation. My mouth is hot and my stomach is burning. I think I might be sick. 

I feel so tired as well. I can't keep my eyes open, and I can't see very well when I do. Livid spots of green and purple dance in my vision from the hypoxia. I grab her, try to moan her name.

It doesn't work, but I know she's there. I know she hears me. With the last thought that I am able to pull together, I know that she does.


End file.
